


what she wants versus what she needs [alternate title what she deserved versus what she has] [alternate title: metaphysical self loathing] [alternate title (screaming at the top of her lungs) FUCK]

by atiredonnie



Series: the aa experience [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Corpses, This Is STUPID
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 09:49:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15603699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atiredonnie/pseuds/atiredonnie
Summary: apocalypseArisen is struggling with her rampant existentialism. call back later





	what she wants versus what she needs [alternate title what she deserved versus what she has] [alternate title: metaphysical self loathing] [alternate title (screaming at the top of her lungs) FUCK]

aradia megido is not fucking around. there will be no do-overs, no take-backs, no dancing on the cracks like a madwoman running lap after temporal lap. time stands still when she wants it to, and after an eternity of doomed universes built on the foundations of following the rules and getting compacted like a dreamless tin can she is- was- condense in her gut, she’s certainly wanting. 

wanting a free pass to an undone past as deja vu sparks like a tinderbox at the constant mentions of what the timeline used to be, wanting a way forwards to an unknown future and tracing these thin and infinite lines in the air with a pointer finger to pass the time that stretches by, putty worn thin and sticky. 

malignant quasi-deities buzz in her ear, calling a line that’s long deactivated, seeking a person who deteriorated and not expecting the barest foundations of a troll. she’s built herself up piece by piece establishing a personality to fit her needs and indulging in practices she should have shut down from the get go just to let go.

but just because she’s alive doesn’t mean she’s forgotten what being dead is like and so rather than repelling her lost souls call to her like a magnet aligned just right. she doesn’t pick a fight even when there’s an awful lot to pick at and fuss over so she just chooses her words carefully, selecting the cream of the crop to grace her presence but it allows and abides by repression. 

she understands this, she was never dumb but it doesn’t take a lifetime of psychology to begin understanding her varying ideologies and the way they conflict and mash together like pressing keys at random. she walks like her feet are swollen with bee stings, clunky and heavy and tethered to the ground, but she herself is as light as air, so everyone shrugs their shoulders and calls it a paradox, a mind lost, to dance, to dilly, to dally around the issue by calling it a non-entity, like her conflicting behaviors and beliefs are symptoms of nothing but a complex character rather than a suffering regression of her humanity, leaking out of her like the brain fluid from her ears when a ray of scorching violet tossed her up in the air like a rag doll and let her fall, crisping and oozing away, bit by bit, brain by brain. 

she rambles in her head like this constantly, endless monologues of confused want and wangstful complaints full of what she most hates. A regression, a non entity, a victim of karma. when her organs were rearranged so was her outlook and now she sees the universe with multifaceted perspectives that conflict like oil and water, staring through a fisheye lens, everything crystal and diluted and pointed every which way. the experience doesn’t outweigh the confusion and nausea and you come away from the whole endeavor scatterbrained and staring into the corners of the universe as if they have anything for you other than blank, cold space.

She pivots at random, every facet of her body serrated and paradoxical, a mirage of less-than-goodwill. life is like a box full of bees. you know what you’re going to get, and you know it’s going to hurt, but you still poke at it with a stick and long for every experience crammed within so hard your heart goes numb with wanting. she didn’t want to be alive when she wasn’t, and now that she is her need is all-encompassing, and she sees everything she wants through that same old fish-eye lens.

the mayhem continues beneath her and beneath her is what it is, but it relieves her and releases her the same way a flood of endorphins would to any troll capable of really being happy instead of playing pretend.

that jumbled phrase takes her back to her FLARP days where she was unmistakably afraid of everything and nothing. trigger happy havoc a hand twitches on the blade gray and sinewed and dripping rust and age. 

aradia tastes the ozone first when she rises through the air hot and heavy and lime lime green, static. it hurts. her lovely rush of pain, the clunkiness of her new body heavy skin and shattering whims, scars and a long canine splitting her deluxe brand new 30% off chapped lips is. refreshing. that is the right word. like a new spring bath. creepy as fuck and a corpse cold hug but she can feel the icy pinch of her toes in her maid loafers and it’s enough, just barely, to sate her hunger and need. 

but the hunger comes back again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again. hundreds, thousands, millions of megidos meet in the middle of her savage angry gut and clamor for dominance and love and life and experience. 

she is rugged towards the dead like a fishhook in her brain and being the only alive sardine in the cramped little tin is enough. until it’s not. 

and she wants and she wants and she wants more and more and more like a petulant child 

but she lost the right to cringe and cry hasn’t done it for a very long time and so she’ll just bide the hours the minutes the seconds the clock until doomsday knocks, not unpolitely.

**Author's Note:**

> i love aradia pls no kill


End file.
